


the deceit of my lips

by patriciaselina



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, Fanon names galore, Gen, Genderbending, Genderswap, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Reichenbach, Self-indulgence ahoy!, Suicidal Thoughts, Very little dialogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciaselina/pseuds/patriciaselina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, when your personal shot of adrenaline goes and gets herself killed, you jump at the first chance you get at doing something heart–pounding, exhilarating for a change. Even if this means the closest thing you now have to a partner is this huffy blonde setting up shop in the Buckingham Palace (for centuries now, she insists), and even if this means that you have to switch places with one of London's most famous models. Really desperate times call for really desperate measures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lead them away captive

**Author's Note:**

> (tl;dr: An ex-army doctor grieving over her lost consulting detective, the Nation known as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and the unlikely successor to one of the wealthiest conglomerates go to slay a dragon.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their children lost heart, and the women and young men fainted from thirst and fell down in the streets of the city and in the passages through the gates; there was no strength left in them any longer. (Judith 7:22)

_ _

* * *

 

_Watson, M.D._

Had Sherlock been alive, she'd have sighed and lamented over how dull everything was by now. But she isn't, which is kind of the point, really.

It has been little over a year since your best friend went and got herself jumping off a roof, and still society deems it proper to treat you like a woman in mourning. Which you are, actually – you remember how when you first met she was all fixated on how a woman's last words should always be _clever_ , always have a purpose, but you remember how her voice had shaken saying _Goodbye, Jean_ and it hurts, despite everything.

(Despite the flowers and empty condolences and the – the _everything_ that Sherlock had left you in her will, you still remain a hollow woman in a hollow room with a hollow will and a hollow heart. This is exactly is why Mark Morstan had been rejected, why any and all hopes of you ever being anyone’s Mrs had been crushed and set aside for future incineration.)

But the thing about society is that not only does it treat you like a woman in mourning, no – it treats you like Sherlock Holmes' chief mourner, a role that may have been filled by a parent or a sibling or a boyfriend, a girlfriend. A spouse, a _partner_.

It makes you laugh, sometimes, and you swear even Sherlock would find the humor in it, had she been here and not six feet under. _Look at that, Sherlock,_ you'd tell her abandoned armchair, on one of your Bad Days, when you smell more like Harry than you do yourself, _death doesn't stop all of London from thinking we were a couple._

Yes, you _were_ a couple, in the most boring and prosaic of ways, two people who bickered over milk and whether or not it should be used for experiments and chased criminals down dark alleys and giggled over stolen ashtrays and stood up for each other, protected each other, fought for each other. So excuse _everyone else_ if you seem to be hurting more than would be considered healthy.

But that would be – _should_ _be_ – a thought for later.

Right now, what you should be thinking about is that whoever thought it was a good idea to abduct and shuttle you off to Buckingham Palace is a horrid person who absolutely _must_ know firsthand the many ways you can kill someone with a teacup.

It's _not_ Mycroft, that's for sure. The ratty old car you had been shoved in was most definitely not her style, and you were taken quite forcibly by what seemed to be an all–female crew, where Mycroft would have just had Anthony (or Eric or Charles or Martin – seriously, who knew what that guy's name really was) talk you into getting in the car. Ever since the incident with Ian, you like to think you know better enough to know the differences between a Holmes–brand abduction and a foreign one.

– there is also, of course, the little thing where Mycroft, the lady who could make entire _countries_ bow to her will if she wanted to, keeps treating you as if her sister's death had left you as little more than silk over glass and doesn't give you anything with which you can amuse yourself in her absence. Not one case. Not even the most _boring_ ones.

Whoever your captors may be, they at least had the good grace to not leave you mulling over your thoughts in the same room where you had once looked over and found your flatmate on the intricate sofa wearing nothing more than a white sheet. This is good for you because at least you don’t have to look beside you and remember how beautiful Sherlock’s laugh had been, and this is good for _them_ because they didn’t have to die a horrific death for reminding you of such an event.

Your head hurts. Sometimes you think you should just eschew all motions of sanity and propriety and good, old-fashioned common sense and just go out wearing goddamned _sackcloth and ashes_ , what with all the reminiscing you keep doing. If the you from before had seen you now, she would have scoffed, would have told you that harboring a weakness, letting it grow, letting it fester, is the worst idea you’ve ever had since the bullet to the shoulder.

And you would have had agreed with her, wholeheartedly, even. Well, you were in the middle of strategizing, remember? You were supposed to be recalling the heavy-handed extraction team sent to abduct you, and the twists and turns they had made you walk blindfolded, and the little tells that informed you, despite all their efforts to conceal your location, that you were in fact in the Palace? And yet you didn’t, still found the time to mourn and grieve and – had you not remembered yourself – weep. The next thought comes unbidden, uncaring, uncalculated, and it makes you wince because you know it would have been _true_ –

Sherlock would have been very, very, _very_ disappointed in you.

(She actually would not have been so, she would not be disappointed by you no matter what you did or ate or married or did not do, but then again you didn’t know that, didn’t you?)

* * *

 

_Kirkland_

 

When the door opens and she sees you, finally actually _sees_ you, she barely moves a muscle.

…or at least that would have been how she had looked to the casual passerby. But you noticed how her fingers clutched at the curling handle of the teacup a little tighter, how her eyes shone a little brighter, how her posture moved a little straighter and how her free hand clutched at her jeans, most probably readying itself for any course of action.

You see all of this, of course, and seeing as the good doctor is one of _yours_ when all is said and done, you cannot help but be proud.

This doesn’t change the fact that she operates on the assumption that you are the enemy, however. Of course you had seemed to be, what with all the late-night abduction and all. You had given clear instructions that Jean was not to be harmed, only secured, but from the looks of it it seems that your guards – finest ones in the Commonwealth, you had _made_ _sure_ of that – never were the sort to take things _gently_.

Then again, neither was _she_.

“So would it be presumptuous to say that you’ll be joining me?” The ex-army doctor shifts, repositioning herself, full lips twisted up in the slightest of smirks.

It should not be a surprise that she is the one to break the silence, then; Semtex may be attached and guns may be used, assassins may be hired and heads may roll but she is _Captain_ Jean Watson, and you know full well that it would take _Armageddon_ to faze her.

(Well, Armageddon, and the loss of Sherlock Holmes, but you also know that to her the two may as well be one and the same.)

“Ahh, no, Doctor Watson. It would be quite right of you to say so, actually, seeing as that is exactly what I am about to do.” You sit in the armchair across her, looking ‘round the dimly-lighted room, musing what Jean could have seen in the hour your guards have left her in your study. Countless books, blown glass, oak furniture, stone walls – everything that makes up the room, save for a few security enhancements here and there, is older than Jean and all her peers, but not older than you. Very little things are older than you.

“You’ve been here for a while now, darling. What do you think?” You sweep out your hand in a gesture that could have been considered regal, referring to the room as a whole. Your study, your _private_ study, the one no-one else was supposed to know about. If Howard knew what you were doing right now he’d most probably have a heart attack.

“A bit dark and gloomy, but I understand that most mysterious abductors usually prefer that sort of décor.” Jean snaps back, her sarcasm seeming to be the one habit that holds her together, which is yet another thing she shares with you. “Don’t even _try_ to tell me that isn’t real,” she continues, using her chin to point to the – rather interesting – things you keep over the fireplace. “I’m a doctor, you should remember. Also: _Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate_.”

She bites back a sigh right then, willing herself not to fall apart in front of you, a stranger, and you are suddenly reminded of your purpose. _A distraction_ , you had told yourself then, you would provide her with a suitable and fitting distraction. It simply would not do to have the good doctor hurling herself off of St. Bart’s, so when Mycroft had not heeded your calls you knew you had to take matters into your own hands, do _something_. Anything at all.

“Oh my, how careless of me,” you begin, peeling off your dark gloves. People were always hard to convince, the soldiers and doctors most of all, so adamant to refuse the existence of something that should not by any means exist, so this failsafe of yours absolutely had to work. “I guess an introduction is in order, don’t you?”

You almost miss the doctor’s hushed, yet harried “wait, _wait_ – ”, because you had already taken her left hand, the one that a therapist’s notes years ago insisted was tremulous, in your own, interlacing your fingers together like little children do. And you close your eyes, and you wait.

Of course you know exactly what she is seeing. It’s her life, just as everyone else had seen upon locking hands with you before, from birth to Bart’s to the bullet to Bart’s once more. The barrage of colours and scents and emotions always did make you lightheaded – centuries of practice did little to inure you to the fact that millions of people’s histories were hidden away in your body, seeping down to your bones.

You crack an eye open, and, to your surprise, Jean is looking back at you. She is remembering everything she’s ever lived through, just as everyone else had before, but even that weight, that _burden_ did not drive her to close her eyes like you did. And you know exactly when the last years – the years with life, with loss, with _Sherlock_ – begin to play, because her eyes grow pained, the deep, dark blue reminding you of ripples in the night-time sea.

“Who are you,” she murmurs, and it’s not even a question, it’s a statement of confusion, a throwaway musing, a riddle. Nevertheless, you know all of two things, just by merely looking at her eyes – one, that she is hurting more than a human being should possibly live through, and two, that question or not, she is still awaiting your answer.

(Let it be known that Sherlock Holmes _obviously_ got her brain from your side of the family. Really. Everything else that Marianne would have said is a lie.)

“I am known by many names,” you begin, and you would have cringe at the extreme triteness of the phrasing had you not have had any better ideas. “but you would know me best as your Nation, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.”

You let go of her hand then, the smallest of mercies. You know that you have just made Jean Watson remember with great clarity the moment she will undoubtedly remember forever – the inconspicuous coat had fluttered in the wind as Sherlock Holmes spread her arms and took flight. You see how her eyes watered and how the twist of her mouth belied bitterness – _sackcloth and ashes, indeed_.

(Once upon a time, when everything else was doing well, you’d read about them in the papers, musing out loud that Holmes and Watson should just stop denying and get together already. Howard had turned to you and laughed.)

“I’m sorry,” you say, because despite her earlier bravery, Jean looks broken and _you did that_ , you do not know how to proceed.

“Don’t be. What else did you do, other than tell me what I already know?” She settles back into her chair, shoving both of her hands into her jacket pockets, as if the mere thought of your skin on hers was going to be the death of her.

(And maybe it was.)

“My best friend is _dead_ , I just _cannot_ seem to move on. I know this makes me sound as attached to her as the papers keep saying, but screw them.” Jean returns to her tea, now a bit cooled. “This still doesn’t explain why you found it necessary to drag me in a dimly-lit study in bleeding _Buckingham Palace_ in the middle of the early morning.”

At this, you just had to raise an eyebrow. A Nation always had to remain nonplussed, unruffled, after all. “But how sure are you that we are in the Palace, pray tell? The windows are heavily shuttered, and who’s to say I didn’t send you across my borders?”

“This is the exact same tea set I was offered before…well, before, you obviously knew it, you _made_ _me_ recall it, for God’s sake.” Of course you remember just as she did, the little meeting about The Man and an unassuming little cellular phone. “It can’t be planted here to confuse me because I know this set was commissioned by the Royals for their closest advisors. Tea’s exactly the same, too.”

“Earl Grey has always been my favourite,” you nod, imperceptibly, crossing your legs as you move away from her, from the table. “And yes, you are correct about the tea set. You are wrong about one little detail, however – _I_ commissioned this for myself, and the Royals’ precious advisers followed suit. I guess this is how things are when a Nation’s presents to herself are mistaken for gifts of favour from a high-ranking patron.”

“You see, I won’t believe you, since Nations are borders written across land and water. Not human-sized, human-looking… _people_.” Jean scoffs at her, clearly skeptical of the thought. “But that still has no relation to why you abducted me, which is kind of why I am sitting still and not cutting into you with a butter knife.”

Despite yourselves and the incongruity of it all, you cannot help but chuckle at the doctor. She could do it. And she _would_ , easily. You know well enough to know when your infinite life is actually in danger. “A wise choice, Doctor. It would do no good for me to attend subsequent World Meetings with cutlery embedded in my chest.” You adjust your glasses then, thin-rimmed and striking red against your porcelain-pale complexion. “Fine, no beating around the bush this time, I reckon. Doctor Watson, I have called upon you to do me a favour.”

You can see her mouth imperceptibly, slowly, cautiously, ‘ _a favour_ ’, before her eyes harden once more, solid, unreadable dark blue. Like long-forgotten ice. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Oh, nothing more than your life and overall welfare, I bet.” You roll your eyes, trying not to remember that Sherlock Holmes had been ice and Jean Watson had been her fire, and that was how it was supposed to be, not the other way around. “Where did that Queen and Country attitude go? I quite liked that, you know. There’s not so many bright young lasses like you nowadays, who still believe in England.” _In me,_ you think but do not say, for that would be a bit too personal.

“‘Young lass’? Not bloody likely, Miss…”

“And here I am forgetting myself. Kirkland, my dear doctor, Rosalie Kirkland.” Another perfectly arched eyebrow raises up, paired with the beginnings of a smile. “Late thirties is _not_ old age, Doctor Watson. Try living centuries and get back to me after you’re done, hmm?”

* * *

 

_Watson, M.D._

 

The thing about Rosalie Kirkland is that she is so convincing that had she not been the same one who instigated an operation meant to abduct you from your flat in three in the bloody morning, she could have called herself anything and you would have believed in her. You don’t know how this is the case, but this is remarkably similar to how you had looked at Jennifer Wilson’s suitcase in Sherlock’s hands and knew without prompting that she was not the murderer.

She tells you to do her a favour and you sip your tea languidly, mechanically. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from saying ‘yes’, after all – you know full well what impulsive thinking had brought you to, and where it could lead you to once more. But then again, you really did have nothing else to do…surely Ella won’t think that a potentially dangerous mission would yield the same results as the inevitable flight over St. Bart’s.

(She _knows_ that both things will yield the exact same result – suicide, actual premeditated suicide. That’s why you aren’t going to tell her.)

“It’s just a simple thing with another young lass quite like yourself.” Rosalie blows across the tea, causing ripples in her wake. “Got a bit of unwanted attention she wants gone. The usual channels can’t help, so she went to me. And of course I pay attention to my lovely daughters.” A shrug, and you cannot fathom whether or not there is sincerity in that statement. “When I saw her, and the nature of her…well, her _problem_ , I knew that you were the only one that could help.”

“Oh, _please_ , stop toying with me, will you?” You set down the teacup with enough strength that had you applied a little more that expensive china would have skittered across the plush carpeting in tiny little pieces. “I’m a _retired_ soldier with a defective hand that prevents me from being in my actual line of medical specialization, and yes, I did use to trail after a certain Consulting Detective who put actual criminals in prison, and I _did_ use to be useful, use to _protect_ her, but that doesn’t matter now that she’s _dead_.” _Do not cry_ , you tell yourself in a constant mantra in your head, _do not cry no no no just stop_. “I’m just someone who’s seen too many things and ran away too many times. Surely you can find a better crack shot that didn’t have _any_ of those black marks to her name.”

“That’s even more perfect, because you’ll be the last one they’ll ever expect.” Rosalie grins over the lip of her tea cup, and even if you didn’t believe she was a Nation then you can absolutely believe it now – you are reminded of tales of colonialization, of pirates and privateers, of empires and skirmishes and how the smile on her face is the exact same smile of a woman who watched the world dance to the tune of her own drum. “And besides, I don’t need a crack shot. I need _you_ , Jean Watson, just in case you didn’t know.”

There is a glossy black patent leather briefcase wedged between her side and an intricately carved golden arm of the chair. It looks very much like something Mycroft would have carried around, and you find yourself aimlessly wondering if all high officials of the government had the exact same briefcases. It would make dead drops and switches easier, you think. Rosalie takes out a single manila file, and tells you to “Go on, open it.”

The woman staring back at you from the paper is very familiar, but you don’t know where you have seen her before. Your mind supplies that maybe she is a celebrity or a talk-show host or a model or something, until it remembers that this is a very passable recreation of your own face.

She has longer hair than you, lovely brown curls reaching past her shoulders, and her eyes are tinted blue-green, just as dark as yours. But aside for minimal details like colouring and height, the resemblance is uncanny. You can almost see why Kirkland needs you, but you cannot for the life of you ascertain exactly _why_.

“That young lady is Wilhelmina Baggins, though I doubt you’d know her by that name. She uses another name to do all her business – she’s an internationally acclaimed model, by the way.” Brilliant. You, a trodden-down ex-army doctor with a scarred shoulder, a psychosomatic limp, and an infamously dead flat mate, happen to have a doppelganger who happens to be a drop-dead-glamorous supermodel. You can see now how a Nation bolsters her daughters’ feeble spirits so. “Do you know of _Garnished and Gilded_?”

“Who doesn’t?” You snap back hastily, but it is only a half-truth. You _do_ know of the aforementioned luxury knicker brand – doing Sherlock’s laundry more than once or twice tends to familiarize you to high-class brands of all kinds – but you never really did pay much attention to advertising. You have always been more of a on-site woman, yourself.

“I’ve heard that she’s being groomed to take charge of the business in case of the time of her boss’ inevitable death.” Rosalie remains perfectly nonchalant, as if she was merely sharing gossip amongst friends, not making an introduction to her instruction. “But that isn’t the least of the girl’s problems. Being in the business as she is…of course there would be more than her fair share of…how do you say this? _unwanted attention_.”

Suddenly you find yourself remembering Moriarty and how she had absolutely _cooed_ as she fussed over you and the stray hairs she swore was escaping your loose bun, the loose wires poking out of the winter coat, how Sherlock would ‘absolutely _love_ seeing you here’. Unwanted attention, _indeed_.

“Still not answering my question,” you say instead, trying to wrestle all thoughts of criminal masterminds and flatmates who used to not be dead out of your mind. “Why does it have to be me?”

“See here, Watson, there’s this man.” Rosalie pauses, for dramatic effect or otherwise, you have absolutely no idea. “There’s this _very_ bad man, who wants to have his grubby little hands on Baggins. So I need _you_ – ” and here she points at you with her fingers, as if there was doubt that needed to be dispelled “ – to _become_ Baggins, because we need that bad man _dead_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s…just about as far as I am going to write. For now, at least.  
> Title comes from Judith 2:7-9: " _Tell them to prepare earth and water, for I am coming against them in my anger, and will cover the whole face of the earth with the feet of my armies, and will hand them over to be plundered by my troops, till their wounded shall fill their valleys, and every brook and river shall be filled with their dead, and overflow; and I will lead them away captive to the ends of the whole earth._ "


	2. plumb the depths of the human heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only, do not try to find out what I plan; for I will not tell you until I have finished what I am about to do. (Judith 8:34)

_Baggins_

Two blondes walk into a bar, and you could swear you had coaxed the exact joke out of Thorin one glorious dinner date ago. But you know well enough that this situation right here, right now, is _not_ a joke.

You are in hiding, for one, long cascades of light brown curls tied up and hidden away beneath the dark green headscarf wrapped snugly around you, partyl hiding your face. Perched atop your nose are the large, dark sunglasses you had for 'emergency meetings', which you decide once and for all this one is included in.

The first blonde - Lady Kirkland, you recall - is exactly as Gandalf described her, long dirty blonde waves falling past her shoulder blades, grazing past the subtle curve of her waist. The woman is willowy thin in a way you yourself know you cannot accomplish, and had she not been given a lack of height by accident of birth (not that you are one to talk, but then again, she has managed to do the impossible and be smaller than _you_ , even) she would have easily landed a job as a supermodel. The frames of her glasses are brilliantly scarlet, bright and enticing against the paleness of her skin and the shocking emerald of her eyes. Despite this is there is something in her manner that makes you want to stand at attention, something completely and utterly larger than life that seems to want to swallow you whole. She affects the easy manner of a girl out for a night of fun at the pub, decidedly comfortable in her navy blue trench and patent leather ankle heels, but her eyes betray her still - this is a woman on a mission, and you only think it fitting that the crowds, drunken as they may be, decide to scatter in her wake, paving out a path to you.

You've always been good at people-watching, after all.

The second woman, trailing behind the first, is taller and blonder and blatantly familiar. She wears a jumper and dark green jacket with this lovely fitting pair of dark, worn jeans that makes you want to yearn for the similarly loved, similarly worn pair you have back home, eschewed in favour of today's dark tights and short moss-green skirt. Her eyes are a deep dark blue, nothing like you've seen before and yet utterly, distressingly, _achingly_ familiar. Her air of indifference is a clear, stark opposite to the first woman's confidence, but there is something about her unobtrusive presence that reminds you of something Nori had told you about before, about _entering with swagger_.

They eventually take their positions to sit at the stools on both your sides, effectively flanking you. The second woman makes this face that shows she is trying not to gape at you, though your subconscious swears that this has no relation to how your face and scantily-clad body is plastered across London for all and sundry, oddly enough. The first woman merely looks at you both, jauntingly, decidedly, pointedly, and grins. Lady Kirkland has perfectly white and even teeth.

“Wilhelmina, darling, this is Doctor Jean Watson, a highly esteemed colleague of the Yard.” Jean winces at the introduction, and you almost ache with curiosity to know the reason why, until familiarity hits you and you remember - _oh._ Jean Watson, infamously known for blogging her exploits with the equally infamous and eccentric Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, who jumped to her demise atopp St. Barts around a year ago. You dimly recall someone saying how _deliciously_ ironic it was, that Sherlock would fall to her death at the same building where she and Jean first met.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know the face of a woman still in mourning.

“Doctor Watson, this is Wilhelmina Baggins, model and assistant director of _Garnished and Gilded_ , our client and protectee.” Jean reaches out a hand for you to shake, and you do, firmly. The other woman grins at you, but the smile does not reach her eyes.

“I do hope you'd excuse me not recognizing you straightaway, miss.” Jean tells you, dark blue eyes serene and suspiciously blank. “I'm not exactly the advertisement watching type, you know.”

“Oh, that's nothing!” You chuckle, grateful for the existence of a person who does not know you first by the billboards. “I love my job, seriously, but being recognized for what I do has its cons. So yeah, I have to take precautionary measures.” You point to the headscarf and the shades, the flimsily made disguise. “That's how it's always is in this line of work.”

“That's how it's always is because we're _women_ , more like.” Jean scoffs, and for once there is actual feeling in her voice, and it consoles you, for some reason. “I know exactly what you mean. I've been through medical school and the buggering _RAMC_ , and still everyone underestimates me because I happen to belong to what the ignorant call the 'weaker sex'. Which is sometimes fine, since I can always play it to my advantage.” She bats her eyebrows once, in a show of false naivety, and you suddenly feel a sense of kinship with this lady doctor, and you find yourself wondering why exactly Lady Kirkland has brought her here. “It doesn't even have exceptions, seeing as the times those bleeding Yarders couldn't even take _Sherlock_ seriously becaused she happened to be wearing a very flattering pencil skirt are so numerous I could drown in them. She was not pleased of course, hit them right over the noggins with the case file she did. That's _my_ Sherlock.”

You wince because you see how it transpires. Jean had been mostly vacant, talking to you with idle sympathies, until she had warmed up to talk to you about unwanted attention. When Jean spoke of her departed flatmate she did so with a smile that lit up her whole face, and you did not miss the possessive pronoun either - _my_ Sherlock. You know enough to know what all of London thinks their relationship must be like, but even if you think the gossip rags are heinous and mostly wrong, you look at Jean's face and think that those rumors were true, in a way. Because you'd eat your own hat if that smile lighting up her face was not _love_.

Almost as if it was a spell, the realization that she had spoken her dead best friend's name was instant. Jean's eyes grew colder, hard as ice, and you can feel her itching to leave, to run and leave you with Lady Kirkland. Suddenly, you think _she watched her very best friend take her own life_ and your veins go numb, somehow.

Silence befalls you three, leaving you to do little other than peruse the rim of your glass. Jean turns from you, forgetting your momentary camaraderie, to do the same. It is after a good ten minutes of doing this that Lady Kirkland finally speaks.

“You see, ladies, this is _exactly_ why we need to work together.” You see another flash of the larger-than-life in her, the conqueror Gandalf said she would be. “Jean, I am afraid to have to be the one to tell you this: Moriarty isn't dead.”

To you this means bugger-all, but to Jean it must mean something, because the look on her face is that of one who sees ghosts. “No,” she breathes, softly, almost desperately. “It can't be.”

“Yes, _Janette_ Moriarty is dead. But Moriarty is more than a man, remember?” Lady Kirkland crosses her legs almost jauntily, and the grin she sports reminds you so much of how vividly and unforgivingly _red_ her choice of lipstick happens to be. “There are so many on their side, countless men and women capable of so much heinous and excessively violent acts. And as it stands, our darling Miss Baggins’…shall we say, _problem_ , happens to be one of them.”

“And this is the actual reason why you did this, why you insisted on having _me_ here, did you not,” Jean’s fingers wrap around the pint in her hands so tightly you fear she may shatter her way through the thick, heavy glass. “Because you found it dreadfully hilarious, didn’t you, the prospect of me dead by the hands of the same villainous plot that conspired – and, need I remind you, succeeded! – in taking the life and dignity of my best friend.”

“Oh, no, Doctor Watson, how frightful that this is what you think I have been thinking about the whole time, when I selected you for the task.” Lady Kirkland holds a hand to her heart, and even then she looks the both of you over, and there is something eerily patronizing in the look of her bright emerald eyes that would have made a lesser woman cringe. “In fact, let it be known that I had quite the contrary idea in mind – I thought you would appreciate having the satisfaction of knowing that Moriarty has lost one of its finest defenses by _your_ own hand.”

“And besides, why else would anyone do anything?” This seems to be quite the rhetorical question, if you were to be asked, but this seems to be a question both women have heard before.

You know this because Jean answers immediately, almost robotically with the detachment in her voice as she murmurs, “Because they’re _bored_.”

* * *

 

_Watson, M.D._

The thing is, you actually understand more than anything else what Rosalie means to imply. If she really is the proper Nation she says she is, then she most probably knew enough about you to know that you’d just have had enough with life and…everything. In general. You do try your best to be pragmatic but you have to admit that living through life without Sherlock after having the chance to experience the contrary was like a blind man having his eyes ruthlessly purged from their sockets immediately after being given the chance to see the world again.

And you _do_ know what you would have been driven to do had Lady Rosalie Kirkland’s people not knocked at the door to your (too-small, empty, hollow, _boring_ , monochrome) flat, had they not come to knock you out and blindfold you. You would have gone on greater, more aimless pursuits, making the entirety of London your punching bag, eventually ending up teetering atop the edges of the hospital where you saw Sherlock a year ago. Your tombstone would not been as grand as hers, you muse idly.

It was all for a worthy cause, which made something flutter deep inside you, something warm and forgotten and oh-so _bright_ , so true. Miss Baggins was charming enough, and you have no idea if it was the small shared anxieties or the eerily similar facial features, but you suddenly find yourself with an urge to want to protect her no matter what. Even if you did have to face a very familiar threat. No, scratch that – _especially_ since you have to face a very familiar threat.

You may have not been quick and fast and strong enough to save _her_ from Moriarty’s clutches, from the hand that might as well could have killed her directly, but you are angry and hurt and regretful enough to want a different outcome for this lovely little Miss Baggins.

“Because of the obvious similarities, we should be just fine.” Rosalie nudges her glass your direction, gesturing uncertainly to the both of you. “The glaringly obvious differences in height and frame we can do little about, but the hair we can mimic. And despite their minute differences in color, your eye colors would also have to be temporarily exchanged, of course.”

There is very little about Rosalie Kirkland that is not more than meets the eye, you muse. Your differences in coloring, as well as the painfully striking similarity of your facial structures, would obviously be known to the most casual of observers. But honestly, the inches you have over Wilhelmina Baggins are too few to be significant in any way, and even though your frame was embarrassingly scarce in comparison to Miss Baggins’ lovely and generously curved own, it was easily hidden away under layers of clothing, fluffy knitted jumpers under thick jackets easily excused away by the chill. And yet she notices this, just as she notices everything else.

Just as _she_ would have known everything else, your treacherous mind adds, and you wince at the fresh barrage of longing. Surely you can’t have been drunk on merely smelling the pint.

“And our mark knows little of Miss Baggins’ personal life – see, darling, it’s a very good thing that you aimed to be a very private person first and foremost – that differences in personality can be chalked up to how little he knows about you.”

“Billa, please. ‘Miss Baggins’ is too stifling.” At the raised eyebrow from Rosalie, Wilhelmina – _Billa_ , apparently – merely shrugs. So it seems the nigh-omnipotent Nation had her blind spots as well. “What? It’s a childhood nickname.”

“You’re _so_ lucky,” Rosalie sighs, and for a moment the mood is eerily similar to the one she had affected before, when you had both joined Billa, just another girl’s night out. Not the beginnings of a reconnaissance. “As far as nicknames go. At least you weren’t ‘Eyebrows’.”

Okay, at that, you had to admit you had to be intrigued. Both of Rosalie’s blonde eyebrows were cleanly and immaculately groomed. “‘Eyebrows’? Whyever would anyone deign to call you _that_?”

“I don’t have very distinctive eyebrows,” The unspoken _obviously_ is tacked on wordlessly to the phrase, but you had already picked up on it. “but I have a brother who does. He’s been having this insanely ridiculous, childish rivalry with this…childhood acquaintance of his for _eons_ now, and it seems a sister of his, who oddly aims to have some sort of similar rivalry with yours truly, happened to pick up on the habit of addressing both Kirkland siblings with said queer nickname.” She shakes her head furiously, as if wanting to wring away uncomfortable memories. “Anyway, let’s not talk about that. My point is, this is very obviously the closest we can get to a perfect honeytrap.”

“Just in case you haven’t noticed,” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I’m not exactly the sweetest bee in the bunch, _m’lady_.”

“Have you been looking at yourself in the mirror, Doctor Watson? That midlife crisis is _so_ unflattering, I must say.” Rosalie rolls her eyes as well, giving off an air of not wanting to put up with any of your excrement. “ _Do_ stop it. If you must have it spelled out of you, you are looking rather well for your age, and just in case you haven’t noticed, you are the spitting image of our dear Miss Baggins here, who happens to be known as one of the Kingdom’s best and loveliest. The fact that you can shoot a man from another building through a bloody window happens to be a huge, gleaming bonus.”

You rub your temples with the balls of your palms, knowing the headache would be soon to follow. You grimace. “So we’re really doing this, then.”

“Actually, truly. _Really_.” Rosalie grins, shark-like and almost predatory. You wince. “Doctor Watson, I dare say _we are making this happen_.”

* * *

 

_Kirkland_

You’ve sent your two girls home, both daughters of England grinning madly like fools due to a lethal combination of alcohol and trickster. The probability that they’d eventually end up sleeping tangled ‘round one another in a messy drunk knot in Billa’s flat is actually higher, however, when they make the drunken walk _together_ , and despite you not knowing how this is so, you decide to take a leap of faith in your own gut and let them go along their way.

It would do good for them to spend time together before the big mission, before the switch, you think. They had hit it off almost immediately, if only Jean had not been thinking of other things. Things that have been taking up a large chunk of real estate in her mind, at that.

Things that, you note with great interest, as you open the door to your own flat, have been taking up a large chunk of _your_ real estate.

Her clothes are radically different, bright colors which are in fashion nowadays ( _colorblocking_ , you recall), and the wavy hair that fans out to her shoulders to hide her distinctive facial features is a striking red, not the dark inky curls you’ve grown used to seeing on the papers and the telly. Despite all this effort at disguise, however, she still cannot do anything about her oddly-colored eyes – or rather, she _chooses_ not to, refusing any and all of your offers of contact lenses, due to some odd vanity or other. And this is how you know, even if you were not a Nation in the first place, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is _her_.

Wilhelmina was right. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know the face of a woman still in mourning.

That’s why before your unexpected guest moves to speak, you’re there to counter her: “She’ll be _fine_. I’ll tell you about it in the morning. _Go to sleep_ , Sherlock.”

* * *

 

_[redacted]_

As this young woman – your Nation, she had insisted, over and over and over – falls asleep on the couch, suddenly too drained to change into her sleep clothes and sleep in her bed like normal, not-legally-dead people do, you think about her and what she was going to make Jean do.

You never really did like people meddling, but she said that it was the only way to keep Jean safe.

“Moriarty is dead, and now I am too,” you had told her then, sullen and striving to be uncaring. “There is no reason for her to not be safe.”

Rosalie had sipped her tea slowly, regally, before slamming it savagely on the coaster. Tea sprinkled over the surrounding area of table. “Preposterous. It’s obvious, my detective, glaringly so – I am keeping her safe from _herself_. You know full well what she was going to do when she lost you.”

 

Despite everything, she had told you that Jean will be fine, will be more than okay, and despite everything that tells you not to take things at face value, you believe in her.

 

And you wish that such a silly little thing as belief would be enough to keep Jean safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Utterly short for now, am currently excruciatingly busy with lots of things (like studying and things that are decidingly _not_ sleeping), but shall get back to you when I get the time to.  
>  Chapter title comes from Judith 8:14: " _You cannot plumb the depths of the human heart, nor find out what a man is thinking; how do you expect to search out God, who made all these things, and find out his mind or comprehend his thought? No, my brethren, do not provoke the Lord our God to anger._ "  
> Billa is a total sweetheart who shall get more lines once this silly little author gets her act together. Also, the actual mission comes near. I am crap at writing espionage. What do I do.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. thou who crushes wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the deceit of my lips strike down the slave with the prince and the prince with his servant, crush their arrogance by the hand of a woman. (Judith 9:10)

_Watson, M.D._

You wake up with what seems to be a mighty pair of jackhammers pounding onto either side of your head, a damnable ringing in your ears, and the enticing yet absolutely queer smell of frying bacon.

 _Where am I_ , your weary mind supplies, before it settles into the contrary question, where am I _not_. The answer to the second question, of course, is ‘not anywhere I know’, because neither your hollow flat nor the hallowed walls of 221B has a sofa half as comfortable as this, soft and perfectly accommodating to the sore muscles in your back. A plush, warm blanket had been wrapped ‘round you in your sleep, though the last thing you remember in the hazy memory of the night was drunkenly laughing over something Billa had said as she turned the key in the lock, and toppling head-over-heels on the carpeted floor.

Oh, right. _Billa_. Your eyes remain closed, but you know your cheeks have once more treacherously flooded with color. It’s a relief you can blame it on the drunkenness, of course. You had gotten yourself roaringly drunk in front of the very girl you were supposed to be protecting from any and all harm. How embarrassing.

Billa had been nonchalant, humming some aimless tune the entire time, until you can hear the scraping of spatula against plates, and there must have been something in your face that had given you away, because she chuckles and says, “And a good morning to you as well, Doctor Watson. Should I put anything in your tea?”

It’s no use pretending any longer, not when you have the sinking feeling that this woman who you knew for barely a night can see right through your soul. It’s not the first time you’ve felt this, after all. You open your eyes slowly, try to sit up, groaning the whole time. “On a scale of one to ten, how embarrassing was I?”

“Oh, Jean – I _can_ call you Jean, right? Or would you prefer being called Watson? – before all things, here’s your tea.”

“Jean’s fine, thanks, Billa.” The pounding in your head has lessened considerably since you regained proper consciousness, but it only serves to make the ringing sound louder. Wordlessly, you grasp for the offered mug of tea, your steaming savior back to the world of the sane. “Oh, that’s absolutely _lovely_. Was that a pinch of honey?”

A pretty flush spreads through Billa’s cheeks, and she is somehow embarrassed as she says, “Well, when I used to get massive hangovers, I had a friend who said that honeyed milk would make me feel better, make sleep easier. I was about to offer you some earlier, when you shortly regained consciousness, but you fell asleep shortly before I was done heating the milk.”

“Did I say anything I can’t live up to? If so, I am dreadfully sorry, Billa. And here I was thinking we’d make an absolutely lovely pair of friends.”

“Oh, there is nothing you could say that could embarrass me away, Jean. Despite the…vagueness of our first meeting, I daresay I would very much like to be your friend.” There is an almost saucy twinkle in the young woman’s eyes when she says “It’s always fun to have a partner in crime.”

“What exactly, pray tell, did we do last night? I remember nothing but running.” Oh, and they _had_ been running, exquisitely and painfully, the psychosomatic limp all but forgotten in the wake of excitement. It’s been long since you have had a good run, and you force yourself not to remember the reason _why_.

“First off, we _did_ leave Lady Kirkland with a little color in her hair, just so.” Billa makes a move that seems to be supposed to represent someone drunkenly tipping a glass over Rosalie’s head. Was that someone her? It must have been, surely dear sweet Billa would _never_ –

“And yes, Jean, it was me. Anyway, she didn’t squeak like we thought she would, but she at least took her eyes off us enough for us to make our escape.” The twinkle in Billa’s eyes was absolutely devious, how had you not seen that before? Oh right, you were drunk. “We had the gloriously mad idea of wandering across London at night. It was _brilliant_. And somehow we managed to end up near my flat, and you insisted of walking me home ‘like a proper lady’. And, of course, as is the tradition of all drunken girls’-nights-out, we were out like lights the moment our feet met the carpet. Well, our feet. And the rest of us.”

“Guess that explains the pounding in my head, though I have no idea why my ears are ringing.” You groan, and Billa merely shrugs, so you decide to file it away for later. There is a bowl of steaming soup beside your tea cup, and it looks all so dreadfully scrumptious that it takes all your strength for you not to inhale it. Surely you had embarrassed yourself enough last night, despite all your hostess has not been saying. Time to change the subject, you think.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” You pause, considering the openness on the other woman’s face as she gives you her full attention. “Your nickname’s got me to thinking. ‘Billa’ is an intriguing name. Mind telling me how it came to be?”

“Oh, not at all.” You have finished the soup now, and you know how you are a mere trifling step away from famished. Billa pushes the communal plate your direction – wait, she was not going to have any of the bacon? It’s a shame, a pity, truly. But you’re definitely not complaining.

“My mum’s doctors all thought she was having a boy when she was having me. I wasn’t turned so the ultrasound could see me just so, I guess. Anyway, my father wanted to call me William, Bill for short. When they found out that I wasn’t a William, they made a few changes, but they were rather attached to the fact that they had long been calling me Bill. So my mum tacked the ‘a’ on to the end, makes any name feminine, she swore. She was so tired and worn out from labor that nobody bothered to negate her. And it stuck, as you may see, which is good, seeing as Wilhelmina is a proper mouthful and a half.”

“I wonder how it’d be, though, having a nickname. My name’s so short that I never really had one.” You have a tabloid name, though, the Bachelorette, but you decide that now is neither the time nor the place.

“A middle name would most probably make your name longer,” Billa ponders, and you flinch, bracing for the inevitable question. You never really did comprehend why your parents ever chose your middle name like so, which is why you’ve hidden it away in initials, Hs that people would never ask about.

But you had been the one to spill it, on that one night caught between Sherlock and Ian Adler so seemingly long ago – _Hadassah. Jean Hadassah Watson, just in case you were looking for baby names_.

Ian Adler had grinned at you then, showing you rows of sparkly shiny perfectly white teeth, and Sherlock Holmes had turned to you, ice blue eyes staring deep down into your soul.

“Hold that thought,” you murmur weakly, clutching a hand to your stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Thankfully, Lady Luck decides to smile at you, and so you only begin hurling in the cavernous depths of the fabled best friend of all drunks, the toilet seat.

* * *

 

_Kirkland_

Marianne was not to be believed in any capacity, because the truth is that you, Rosalie Kirkland, do not get drunk on anything. Not now, not ever. Whatever scene she may or may have not dreamt up may have been another one of your too-flawless fabrications, something false which should not have been broadcast at a World Meeting for all and sundry. Because you are _Rosalie_ Kirkland, not Arthur Kirkland, and you do not get drunk.

“You have not been drinking, have you.” Your unexpected midnight guest says, still looking exactly the same as she had last night. Had she still have not been sleeping?

“I have been, actually. We were in a blasted _pub_ , after all.” You grunt, pulling a comb through your wavy hair, why did the deities that be think that you’d look nicer with blasted blonde waves, Sakura had long straight dark hair and she was _fine_ –

She raises one immaculately groomed, now dyed red, eyebrow at you, and you can feel the beginnings of a smirk fall into place on the edges of your mouth. “And yet you are not hungover?”

“ _Please_ , Sherlock. I am a _Nation_. It takes more than prissy little ethanol to take me down.” Eons of blood and rupture and explosions, and yet here you still stand. Little Miss Consulting Detective would just have to take your word on that. “Now, sit. I assume you have more than enough questions for me, but as I am currently busy tending to two harried and fascinatingly contrary Nations _and_ two of my lovely daughters, one of which who tipped the drink over my pretty blonde head, I must add, I can only offer the third prodigal supposedly-dead daughter the slightest mercy of three questions before I ultimately dash away.”

Sherlock is about to say something in return, in retaliation, but you raise a finger up to stop her. “And no, it doesn’t matter how handsomely you pull off that bright…fuchsia, thing.” It is now _your_ turn to raise an eyebrow. “Pray tell, what happened to your other best friend? Someone called _fashion sense for sane people_.”

“The transport does not matter,” she snaps back, and there you know you have caught her at her wit’s end. She falls backward into one of your plush chairs, and you follow suit, giving up trying to tame your unrepentant waves. Surely Amelia and Madeleine would not mind seeing you with your hair in a chignon? As you ponder upon this, Sherlock grumbles, absolutely cross. “Why are you so _infuriatingly_ obtuse?”

Oh, this would be _fun_. “Are you sure you’d like for _that_ to be your first question, darling?”

“No, that would be preposterous.” Sherlock crosses her legs, attempting to regain her composure, you think. “What exactly are you putting Jean into?”

“You remember Smaug, do you not?”

“The codename of another one of Moriarty’s countless associates. Currently somewhere in banking and finance, although the exact specifications are unknown. Also known as the Dragon.” Sherlock cocked her head, quizzically. “Was it just him that needed to be put away? Should I have taken care of him?”

“What…no, Sherlock, don’t be daft.” Rosalie exhaled, yearning for the kettle to boil. “And that’s _three_ questions, but I’ll be giving you another one. Yes, this correlates to Smaug, no, you are not going to be the one who kills him. Don’t get me wrong, this is merely because I thought of someone else better suited for the job.”

Sherlock’s eyes freeze to ice, staring straight past you, and you may be high and mighty on your Nation throne, but your still shiver under the intensity of that gaze, however minutely. “ _Jean_. You are making _Jean_ kill that…that…”

“What’s wrong with it? She looks _exactly_ like the same lass that Smaug was originally after, just a few tweaks here and there and they’d be _twins_. She can arm herself with anything and when we first met she threatened me with a _butter knife_ , I kid you not.” You look at Sherlock then, daring yourself to meet her eyes, forbidding their gaze may be. “Plus, you of all people know she’d _love_ to take Moriarty apart with her bare fingers. And you know she’ll have absolute _fun_ sneaking under their defenses.” Sherlock does not reply, so you decide to push your luck even further. “Danger is _your_ specialty, is it not? _Both_ of you.”

It reaps the intended effect and Sherlock now looks like she had been shot, eerily enough. You stand up and pat down your dress, face the mirror and fix your hair. It takes her quite a while until she could muster, “Will you keep her safe?”

She doesn’t specify whether or not she had been pertaining to Billa or her dear Jean, but you know she had been thinking of them both anyway. “I will do everything in my power to keep them safe. You of all people should know that. You’re still here, aren’t you?” With another fluff to your bangs you decide your visage now worthy of public knowledge. “Help yourself, then. I’ll be off now.”

You trot off to the foyer, fussing with the laces on your boots, when she speaks up again. Jean’s blog had been right – that lass _always_ had to have the last word. “If she is put in danger I will destroy you, you know I can. And I _will_ , gladly.”

England is a selfless nation, and you would gladly have left her there at that, if only to stroke her ego. But you know she would not take mollycoddling from anyone, least of all you. “Oh, but darling, that would be terribly ambitious of you.” you say, before closing the door behind you.

You return home from the luncheon with the North American sisters and find your flat derelict of any sign that she had been here. Any sign, you peruse, any sign but this.

There is a wad of cloth atop your coffee table, folded carefully, meticulously. You would know that scarf anywhere, and you pick it up, thinking that _she_ would too.

* * *

 

_Baggins_

Jean had fallen asleep again, which is a shame seeing as she never got to have lunch. Or dinner. Maybe she would benefit from a little midnight snack? …never mind, you weren’t going to wake her up, not now, not ever.

From the dark circles under her eyes you could deduce she had not been having any proper sleep for what, one, two weeks now? It was a tad depressing that life had to go to such methods to get her to sleep, but at least it worked.

She was on your bed now, under the warm covers with the thread count that exceeded your salary. The sofa was nice, a gift from Bofur and the other boys, but she definitely would not appreciate having to squeeze herself snugly in there when there was a perfectly sound bed without an inhabitant.

The door rings, one long, one short, another long. A Morse code _K_ , which is how you know it’s her.

“Jean’s asleep,” you tell Lady Rosalie, half-whispering. “How may I assist you?”

“Oh no, nothing, my dear girl.” The Lady cards a hand through your curls in a way that vaguely reminds you of Gandalf. “I just came here to drop this off for our lovely doctor. Send her my love?”

“She’d most probably toss it back to you, you little menace.” says a voice behind you. The bedroom door had been open the whole time, and yet you did not notice that Jean had woken up – which is probably why it was _her_ who was going on this mission and not you. “What’s that?”

“It’s the best I could have done,” Rosalie says simply, passing the package over to Jean’s hands. “I can think of no one better to hold on to it.”

The scarf is a soft, decadent dark blue, reminding you of the color of Jean’s eyes. Subtle stripes run up and down the length of it, and it looks spectacularly worn in, used enough, loved enough to matter to…whoever its owner had been. And to Jean, who had been looking at the scarf as if it was the spectacular last specimen of a nearly extinguished species.

“She would have wanted you to have it,” Rosalie says breezily, crossing the room to look up at Jean, whose knees where slowly going weak as she held on to your hand for support. “Do you understand completely now? Why it has to be _you_ who has to help?”

Jean’s voice is soft, but you can hear the determination ringing as she breathes, “Fine, count me in.” She winds the scarf ‘round her throat, gingerly, reverently. You feel as if you have just been made to witness something precious.

Rosalie leaves, saying the three of you will speak later, and Jean finally gets that midnight snack with you. Until the very moment she falls asleep, the scarf does not leave her person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Judith 9:8: _Behold now, the Assyrians are increased in their might; they are exalted, with their horses and riders; they glory in the strength of their foot soldiers; they trusts in shield and spear, in bow and sling, and know not that thou art the Lord who crushes wars; the Lord is thy name_.  
>  I do know that this silly little thing of mine does the Biblical tale no justice, I am afraid. I’m not exactly the most religious type, despite being a born-and-raised Roman Catholic, but yes, I have completed reading the Bible when I was in grade school, and it was this little-known book, the Book of Judith, that really stuck to me. When I first got to writing things some three years ago I absolutely knew that I had to write something in homage to it, because despite its violence and brevity there had been something absolutely elegant in the story and lo and behold, I had the idea of combining my three dearest fandoms for the said purpose. It’s not the most orthodox of ideas, but inspiration strikes when it does.  
> And yes, Jean’s middle name is Hadassah. Another Biblical reference – it was originally meant to merely be an analogue to John’s middle name Hamish, but then again this is a reference to the heroine in the Book of Esther, the lovely young woman who won the affections of a king.  
> The next one up is the beginning of the mission. Whoop-de-do, I am horrible at espionage. Wish me luck.


	4. wait for deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not try to bind the purposes of the Lord our God; for God is not like man, to be threatened, nor like a human being, to be won over by pleading. (Judith 8:16)

_Watson, M.D._

 

The picture of your mark was definitely the great white elephant in the room right now.

Rosalie's eyes had been shaking, distraught like mothers of proper criminals would have been, fussing and fuming about what they could have done wrong. Billa clearly tried to affect a nonchalant facade, but the sight of her teeth pressing down hard on her lower lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, betrayed her confidence. What had this man _done_?

You like to think that seeing the picture of the man who will soon be deceased by your hand did not faze you, would like to say you can look away and console Billa with an arm wrapped 'round her shoulder, would like to say you can chase away the haunted look on Rosalie's face with another witty comment. But you cannot look away, and your fists are clenched and your throat dry.

He just looks so much like _her_ that it makes you want to break down and cry.

If you did not already see her birth certificate ( _Sherlock Holmes, born January 6, single birth, bringing the total count of Holmes siblings to two, counting the eldest and only other sister, Mycroft_ ) you would have sworn that the man on the picture could have been a twin. Fraternal, of course. They were of opposite genders, of course, and where Sherlock's curls had been long and immaculately dark his are short and strikingly scarlet - his hair glints off the reflective lights of the photobooth in strange ways, reflecting different colors. It reminds you of a flame, warm like the one in the candle at Angelo's, destructive like the mine underneath Doctor Frankland's feet. Where her eyes had been ice blue and cool grey and the barest hint of teal his are warm, melting, almost equally bewitching golden brown, but even the shape of their eyes is exactly the same.

And - dear _God_ why is this happening to you - you would know those cheekbones anywhere. You lick your lips; fondle the scarf still resting at your throat. In a few days you would have to part with it, but for now you caress the scarf Sherlock used to own and think that she would have wanted you to keep yourself together.

Rosalie exhales, and turns to look at both of you. "Well. That pretty much came across as well as I expected."

Sarcasm finds its way back to you and you cling to it, greedily. "So you expected worse out of us? What silly sentiments would the said outcomes have includ

"I don't know, hyperventilation, tears to the heavens, smelling salts? I know you lasses aren't in the Victorian era, but hey, always have to be prepared!" After shrugging her uncertainty off, Rosalie turns to you with another one of her biting grins. "I at least expected you setting off and putting a bullet through the picture. Unnecessary, but amusing."

"I don't have my gun." Like _I'm all right_ and _I'm not jealous_ and _We are not a couple_ , this is of course a lie. The gun is where it always had been, tucked safely in the waistband of your jeans. Its protectee may be gone, but maybe down it could keep _you_ safe for a change. This is something that Rosalie does not need to know, even if you think she already does.

After you had scoffed at her claims of being England, she had relented and said that she had contacts in MI6, which was where she got the photo. Which brings to mind another question -

"Does Mycroft know about this?"

Rosalie had chuckled. "When your girl said Mycroft Holmes was my government, she really was not lying. Yes, she had already seen this. Preferred to opt out, the poor thing. Insisted I should know her enough to know that legwork is beneath her, but we both know that isn't true." She holds your gaze for a frightening amount of seconds, and you flinch. "A little too soon, I guess."

"You didn't think _I_ , of all people, would have the same response to that...stimulus?"

"I think you would have wanted to stop this monster from doing evil deeds wearing what could pass as _her_ face," Rosalie snaps back at you, and yet you can hear the urgency, the desperation in her tone. You really were her first and only choice for the job, then. "Especially after seeing what he had done to Billa's young man." At the look of surprise that most probably had been on your face, Rosalie raises an eyebrow and turns to the last member of your company. "Billa. Did you _not_ tell her about your young man? Don't be shy, darling."

Billa, who had been painfully, uncharacteristically quiet the whole time, suddenly jumped into attention, wincing as if she had been burned. "Um, well, I did not think it proper to suddenly talk about Thorin when the subject hasn't even been breached, thank you very much!" she snaps back in what could only be called a _possessive_ fury, until she realizes that she had said his name, clamps her hands over her mouth.

"Ooh, Billa, that's _wonderful_!" You had been through more of your fair share of boyfriends - there was a reason they called you Three Continents Watson, after all - but something in Billa's tone told you she had met the One, and who are you to not be happy for her? " _Thorin_ , this time...do you know that you guys have such interesting names?"

Billa sighed, carding a hand through warm chestnut curls. "'Wilhelmina' isn't even half of it. There's a good reason why my middle name's always 'forgotten', thank you very much."

You sigh along with her. "I know exactly what you mean. What were our parents _thinking_?"

Rosalie watched you both, and huffed in a way that could only be called regal. "Preposterous, the both of you. Billa, need I remind you that Boudicca singlehandedly led our ancestors to victory? And Jean, don't you even start - I know you are neither religious nor subservient, but surely you'd appreciate the bravery of Hadassah, our dearest Esther."

You cannot help it; you raise an eyebrow and look at your friend. " _Boudicca_ , aren't we?"

"Oh, like you're one to talk, _Hadassah_." she snaps back, clearly aiming for her usual playful tone. But still she is wound tight as the men you saw in Afghanistan; what has this man done to the man she loves, what could he do to her, what could he do to _you_?

* * *

 

_Williams_

 

"Don't listen to her, ladies!" your sister almost-yells as she barges into the room, you trailing close behind. The three women all flinch at your sudden entrance, and at that you just have to sigh. Damn Amelia and her penchant for drama. "Rosie's just _beyond_ excited that there are people that have worse luck at middle names than she has. Am I right, _Albion_?"

Rosalie has her back turned to both of you, and though your sister does _not_ believe in magic you still have to say that there is something otherworldly in the way her hair fans away from her face as she turns to face you, something indicating her annoyance and yet the unique Kirkland-brand embarrassment under it all. Years of existing with the United States of America clearly allowed Rosalie to perfect her fond disappointment face.

"Madeleine, _Amelia_." And there it was - the fond disappointment face you would always steer clear of, that your sister always grins through and does not cower under. "To what shall I owe the sudden _bane_ of your presence?" She is looking at Amelia when she says this, and you know full well you have intruded upon something top secret and dreadfully important, but hearing your presence being described as a 'bane' still does not sit well with you. You grimace.

Rosalie obviously realized this because she calls for you. "Madeleine, leave your sister standing like the fool she is by the door, yes, now that's a good lass. Here, have a seat with the rest of us sane people. Madeleine, these are my colleagues, Doctor Watson and Miss Baggins. Jean, Billa, this is my little sister and charge, Madeleine Williams."

The two women sitting across from you are almost identical, down to the faces and the hair color - a nice warm chestnut - only one has her straight hair in a bob and is wearing a plush dark blue scarf that matches the color of her eyes, and the other has long curly hair reaching down to her shoulder blades and a pair of sparkling blue-green eyes. You could swear they were twins in the same way you and Miss Jones (who still does not take her seat, unsurprisingly) are twins despite the differing surnames, only they are humans and not Nations like you.

Must be something complicated, then.

"Oh, hello, Doctor Watson, Miss Baggins." You say, reluctantly, hoping to God you did not get them wrong.

Unfortunately, it seems you have done just that; Rosalie chuckles mildly, but thankfully the short-haired one speaks up, mirth evident in her tone. You flush so red you should be mistaken for a tomato by now. "See, Billa? You look more like the doctor-type than I do, now. Told you chestnut does not look well on me." She goes on to fondle the ends of her short bob, almost reluctantly. "I miss my hair."

"It's probably the scarf-wearing indoors that threw her off, the poor dear." The curly-haired one smirks, and her companion flushes beet red and tosses a pillow at her. Must be some kind of inside joke, but the short-haired one's eyes are glimmering faintly and you think the scarf must be important to her. Thankfully you are used to giving no comment. "I do apologize for the good doctor, Miss Williams. Billa Baggins, at your service. I think it best you call me Billa instead of my actual name - if you do the latter, we'll be here all day!" She chuckles, and you find yourself laughing along.

"'Madeleine', please. Unfortunately, my name has no nicknames that I can be seriously fond of, so I hope you don't mind." You smile back, shake her hand; Miss Baggins seems to be a good person to talk to. And, despite the mystery shrouding her persona, you think Doctor Watson must be one too, with the easy way the strange chestnut-haired twins sit so comfortably together. You are better at ascertaining people's characters than Amelia is, after all - another of the few perks of being such a natural introvert.

"How imprudent of me, sorry. Jean Watson, nice to meet you, Madeleine." The grin on the short-haired one's face is quite like Billa's, but also quite not - it reminds you of the way that Amelia smiled immediately after the Towers, and it makes you want to reach out and hug her, but that would be weird. "You can call me Jean."

"Never you mind, Jean, nice to meet you as well." The handshake is firm, strong, solid - _a proper military woman, then,_ you think for some reason. "You served in the army, did you not?"

Jean stills, though the look on her face is not the one you expected - her face plainly screams _deja vu._ "How?"

Did you trigger some unfortunate memory? You must have, because now Rosalie is looking at you worriedly. _Good job, Madeleine,_ you berate yourself. "Err...let's just say I've had lot of practice pointing out a military person by his or her handshake. Rosalie's grip always tightened after she'd come back from a campaign."

At that Jean's lost expression wavered, shaped itself to cockiness as she grins at Rosalie and says, "I never took _you_ for a soldier, Kirkland. Thought you were MI6?"

"I _did_ tell you _exactly_ what I was, _Captain_ , but did you believe in me? _Nooo_!" It seems your dear elder sister found herself another skeptic, to her eternal dismay. She never really did get over the first one.

Speaking of which - Amelia laughs rambunctiously from the corner you left her in, letting her presence known. The four of you turn to look at her, and she shrugs. "What? Amelia F. Jones here, most awesome chick in the history of existence. And yet I am not invited in the silly little tea party?"

Rosalie pinches the skin where her brows meet, as she always does when Amelia is concerned. " _Do_ close the door behind you, you narcissistic little _hoot_." As she does, merrily, banging the cream white door closed with one of her sky-high heels, Rosalie sighs even more. "What did I _ever_ do wrong in raising you, Amelia?"

Amelia shares a look with you - the one that says you know _exactly_ why (and you do, really, but now is neither the time nor the place) - and flops ungracefully down into the seat beside you. "Well, Rosie, you fed me your cooking, for one. Can't say I ever recovered from the trauma. At least Marianne fed Maddie during her formative years - even if she does eat yucky stuff. Like _snails_."

" _Escargot_ is a perfectly _fine_ example of cuisine, thank you very much," you scoff, and both Rosalie and Amelia cringe in thinly-veiled disgust. Your French ways have always been at odds with their English ones - such philistines, the lot of them, in your humble opinion.

"You keep saying that, hun." Amelia pouts, shrugging off her ever-present bomber jacket to show the sleek dark skirt suit she'd been wearing underneath. Your sister rarely did willingly wear the 'boring dark frou-frou your eldest sister called 'formal wear', but when she did the look on Rosalie's face was always dumbstruck. Despite, of course, the fact that Amelia's high heels were patent leather and shockingly electric pink, with heels that easily passed the four-inch mark. What was it with Amelia and asserting her height? If it was about the three inches you normally had on her, this absolutely had to be overkill.

"Now let's get straight to business, why don't we?" Amelia grins, widely and steadily, but you have the feeling that any lesser woman would have fainted under said glare. "Tell me now, Rosie - _what are you doing_?"

* * *

 

_Jones_

 

To her credit, Rosie doesn't even bat an eyelash. But then again, what did you expect?

"Nothing you can't have _already_ known, Amelia." she sneers at you, emerald-green eyes glinting. "You honestly think I did not know CIA was tracking our every move? That's careless, darling, _honestly_."

At the mention of 'CIA' you can see the short-haired doctor thin her full lips, and it is then you remember more clearly. From the security footage Doctor Watson had been fair-haired, with a gun to her nape, and you could see the other woman in the room with her hands to her head and a gun to her chest, and you had seen the way the dark-haired woman's eyes widened with concern when your agent had said _at the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson_.

Now, you don't usually let human emotion get the better of you whenever you were doing this espionage thing, but you still smacked Archer across the back of his head with your lunch.

Hey, the guy may be good at his job and all that, but you did _not_ spend centuries fighting for women's rights to end up with sons who don't even know how to threaten women without overstepping gender equality. Also, why did you always have to shoot the heterosexual life partner to get to the goods. It did work on everyone, sure - even rumored-to-be heartless and mechanical Sherlock Holmes, for crying out loud! - but there had to be another way.

"Listen, Rosie. Now I know you always put your hands over your ears and hum merrily when I go all serious mode on you, but Rosie," and here you lean forward, crinkle your eyes just so in the way that used to get Rosie to give you anything you wanted. "You're taking on the _Dragon_? Without _me_? Color me surprised."

Rosie frowns, turns to Maddie instead as if berating your lil' sis for the many wondrous things you do was her God-given right. "Madeleine, did she put you up to this."

"Rosalie, believe me when I say I have absolutely no idea she was going to pursue this subject in polite company." Maddie pouts - of _course_ you did not tell her, what kind of big sis would you be if you didn't even give her plausible deniability? "Which reminds me, sorry to subject you to all this, Billa, Jean. It's just...you know. _Siblings_."

Amidst all this Nation talk and posturing, however, the two British gals across from you don't even flinch like normal humans usually do when in the presence of Nations, especially when in the presence of three Nations. Must be made of sterner stuff then, which kind of makes sense since they're the ones Rosie chose.

"Oh, _I_ wouldn't know, Madeleine." The longer-haired one says, tossing her curls over her shoulder. "I don't have a sibling." Which is weird, since it’s kind of obvious for all to see that she and this doctor woman are twins, in your opinion?

"On the contrary, however, I do understand. _Completely_." The short-haired one grumbles almost petulantly. "Harry wasn't exactly a ray of sunshine, even on her best days, and then I grew up and got myself smack dab in the middle of the biggest power struggle this side of Baker Street. It's nice sometimes, and gratifying at its best, but that doesn't change that siblings are still horrifying. Consider yourself lucky, Billa dear."

"I wholeheartedly concur, did you know that?" you grin, liking this doctor already. _Definitely_ made of sterner stuff. "Especially," you say, jerking a finger Rosie's direction. "when it comes to Little Miss Sunshine over here. How do you manage?"

"Let's just say I have been through worse, Amelia." Doctor Watson chuckles back, wryly.

"Okay, Billa, Jean. Can we now stop spoiling the attention-glutton and return to the issue at hand, so that she may now hear about it and immediately leave so that I and darling Madeleine shall be free to have tea after we convene?" Rosie rolls her eyes, indignant that everything is your fault. Hey, it was not your fault she conveniently happened not to answer you when you asked why she was taking Sherlock Holmes' doctor gal on a suicide mission.

"Billa and Jean. You know what, that reminds me of a song -"

"No, no. Just _no_." Rosie has her hands straight out in front of her, raised in surrender. "All right, fine, you win. I will tell you everything about this project if you promise to shut up and not say anything, hopefully sparing my poor kingdom from the atrocities of your singing."

"How could your kingdom not approve, when it was from the _King_ of Pop? Anywhere, here goes - _Billie Jean, is not my lover, she's just a girl -_ "

"Who thinks you are the one, but he is not your son, yes, I know. You sobbed over my and Madeleine's nice blouses the whole time during his funeral, remember?" Rosie rolled her eyes back at you. "But that's not the point. Point is, this happens to be a _very_ delicate honeytrap that I do not want your clumsy CIA agents happening upon and sullying. This is on a strictly top-secret, need-to-know basis - as you just said, he is _the_ Dragon, after all."

"So we're the clumsy ones now, huh? Even if it was your fault that Bond -"

"Amelia, _hush_." Rosie's voice is rougher than usual, more urgent, until you collect yourself and remember. Sherlock Holmes had been victim, perpetrator, and savior of the Bond Air situation, as well as the Adler thing, right. Not something to talk about in front of her best friend who still mourned over her and wore her damned scarf like a security blanket.

Thankfully, Billa and Jean had still been talking to Maddie about something or other, not hearing your little interlude.

"All right, so here's the gist of it, if anyone still wants to know." For all you may say about Rosie and her dorkiness, she still happens to have the presence that draws in everyone in a room, and you feel it now. "It all began years ago, when a certain _someone's_ special someone's family's home got razed to the ground..."

* * *

 

_Baggins_

 

Thorin really did _not_ like talking about his family history, which was why you had physically felt pained when he struggled through telling you the fire that claimed his relatives and the family's grand ancestral home. It was right then, at that very moment, that you realized how dangerous the situation you both now were in actually was - you had held him close as he nagged him to stay away, to _leave_ _him_ , so that the arsonist that held the strongest of grudges towards him and his family would never be able to burn you. You had been scared, yes, but you love Thorin Durinson madly and with every fibre of your being, so you had tutted and told him that you would never leave him, not now, not _ever_.

And as you have done with every unsolvable problem you have ever faced before, you had gone straight to the sleek grey-toned offices of Gandalf Legris.

While to an outside onlooker it would have seemed like he had assembled one motley crew - three women, one terrified, one mildly sycophantic, and one feverishly grieving - but looking at your faces as Rosalie tells the story, you can see exactly why Gandalf chose you.

_The seeker, the sponsor, the soldier._

Amongst the three of you, you think you can settle this unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The arrival of the American twins definitely lengthened my word count, that's for sure. So yeah. My subconscious is delaying the mission proper for as long as it possibly can, I swear.  
> Title from Judith 8:17: _"Therefore, while we wait for his deliverance, let us call upon him to help us, and he will hear our voice, if it pleases him."_ I went backwards 'cause well, the next verses after chapter three's verses lead to the mission proper, which we are...still not in, as of me halfway done with chapter five.  
>  Thanks for reading through this, again!


	5. to entice the eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And she removed the sackcloth which she had been wearing, and took off her widow's garments, and bathed her body with water, and anointed herself with precious ointment, and combed her hair and put on a tiara, and arrayed herself in her gayest apparel, which she used to wear while her husband Manasseh was living. (Judith 10:3)

_Watson, M.D._

 

She had made a ruckus of what was supposed to be you and Billa and Kirkland's first of many recon meetings - banged the door, stomped her pretty pink heels, pouted those extravagantly full lips, so much like a child, so much like _Sherlock_ that thankfully you had been keeping yourself in check during the mission, because if not you would have irrationally, inevitably, broken down. But - and you cannot stress the absurdity of the situation strongly enough - all for _this_.

“Oh, c'mon, don't gimme that look, darlin'.” Amelia Jones grinned at you, from the other side of the aisle, a bunch of hangers in hand. “This is my specialty, you forget. It's a shame Rosie didn't divert you to me any sooner. I would have saved you from that horrible excuse of a disguise.”

“These are _my_ clothes.” You grumble, wishing you had managed to confuse Madeleine into taking you instead. Across the room you can see her walking the impeccably-dressed Billa along aisles of beautiful denim pants, sturdy and lovely button-downs, jackets that would last forever. Now that, that section right there, that was Jean Watson _heaven_.

Jones sniffed, clacking her electric blue heels as she turned to face you in a posture that could almost have been military, a stern look on her face. “Well, at least we know what _not_ to get you, then.”

Okay, so maybe you had to be a bit cross about Jones' comment, but clothes had never been much of a priority for you. Well, except for when you were on dates and stuff, but wasn't that a normal attitude for one to have to clothing? From the appalled look on Jones' face, apparently not.

“It's nothing personal, believe me.” She'd told you later, elbow-deep in frilly pretty clothing. Leggings, frilly skirts, blouses with Peter Pan collars. Things you would only have worn if you weren't already almost fourty. (When you told her that, Jones had snapped back “I'm centuries old but did you see that stop me from wearing the pretty things? _Nooooooooo_.” You still don't know if you should believe her.)

“A very amazing person taught me that disguise is hiding in plain sight -” and here you flinch at the sudden memory, where had this lass been during the Game and _how did she hear her say that??_ “But it just won't do in this situation. Billa is a model, remember - even if she does dress rather simply for one of her standing, she still does so with a gravity that makes her able to stand out in anything. More than the clothes, it's that assertion - that shy and quiet confidence - that you'll have to work on. It's being an actress, playing a part - to remind you of that, we need to dress you in clothes as contrary to your usual wardrobe as possible.” She shoves you all-too-brightly in the changing stall, leaving the fancy skirts and dresses to topple down around you. “Now go, I need to see you in every outfit. A mission depends on it, okay?”

When she leaves you be, finally shoves the curtain closed, it is only you and the mirror. You gasp, having to touch the mirror with the tips of your fingers. Having to convince yourself it's real.

You had stubbornly still been wearing your clothes, but from the neck up, at least - the wig was a light chestnut, like the dye now staining your hair (that  Kirkland had insisted you use, for contingencies' sake, the big worrywart), and while the eye color change would have been near-indistinguishable to most, you can see it clearly from here - the contact lens color had been intricate enough to manage to pull off the natural coloring of Billa's actual eyes, managing to look just like your own eyes, only with a slight shuffling from the green-blue to the blue-green side of the spectrum. You marvel at the workmanship of the beginnings of your disguise, and know without looking that the contacts Billa is wearing right now match your actual eye color as well, perfectly.

You notice the things that Jones picked out for you - nice dresses, empire-waisted and unfortunately showcasing how well-endowed Billa Baggins was compared to you. As she looked you over, Amelia tutted and said that the look wasn't going to work out, _move to the next one, hun_.

That's when you move to the separates, then, and before you even know what exactly you are doing your hands zip the skirt up your waist, wrap the blouse 'round your abdomen. It's the quickest you've changed into something in the history of _ever_ , and there is a look of clear surprise on Amelia's face when she sees you.

“Hmm,” she muses, tugging at her chin with a hand. Her bright blue eyes seemed to have grown darker, a bit somber. A sullen look does not suit her, you think. “It looks nice on you. Not Billa Baggins-ish, but still. _Nice_. I'll be getting that for you. For _after_ the mission, you hear me.” And, to your surprise, she subtly pushes you back in, behind the curtains, her lips tightly pursed against each other as if she did not want even the slightest molecule of carbon dioxide to leave.

Well, that was a bit awkward.

Guess you'll have to plow through the rest of the clothes then, lest you be here all night.

* * *

 

_Jones_

 

As you always did in these kinds of situations, you took out your cell and called Rosie.

“Kirkland, Rosalie.”

“OhmygodRosiewhatdoesthis _mean_ whatdoIdo.” You murmur harshly into the confines between your phone and your hand, only to be stopped by Rosie's - laughter. Yup, the little snitch was laughing at you, goddamnit all. “I am being _totally_ serious, by the way. What do I do now???”

“It's _shopping_ , you insolent little lout, and yes, you _did_ volunteer. Told you you didn't _have_ to bring the good doctor along. Has she put a bullet in you yet?”

“ - What is it with you and wanting to wish bodily harm on me? Anyway, that's not the point of me calling. Remember _Adler_?”

“Oh, Ian, _yes_ , darling.” There is a sudden breathiness, now, in Rosie's tone, one that does not bode well for your sanity. “Not exactly a _night_ I'd want to forget.”

“Eugh,” You groan, slapping the heel of your pal against your forehead. “I know I did publish Fifty Shades, but I don't exactly want a mental image of a guy going all Christian Grey over someone who's older than _dirt_ itself, no matter how hot said guy is, thank you _very_ much.”

“Like you're one to talk,” Rosie sniffed, just as she always did when you oh-so-subtly insinuated your relative youth in comparison to her. “Also, do not remind me of that book. All those years of teaching you proper English, culminating in...this.”

“Shut up, I know you love it, stop complaining. But let's leave that for later, because Adler said that _disguise is a self-portrait_ and you will not believe who our lil' captain looks like now.”

There is a slight shuffling on the other line, and you assume that Rosie has now been sitting straighter on that pretentious little chair she adores so much. “Not like Billa, I'm presuming, since you were panicking.”

“Am not panicking.” You mutter, petulantly. It has always been your life's purpose to be contrary to Rosie for as much as possible, as long as possible.

“You called me, for one.”

“Okay, fine. I am panicking.” You say in one shuddering breath, because jokes aside, it was the truth. “She was wearing the kind of dresses Billa would wear, only she wasn't going to be able to fill them out as much and padding and push-up bras will be too obvious. But there was this one - you have to be here to believe it, Rose.” You tug at the collar of your blouse, as you were prone to do when stressed. “I know you said I only ever saw her on TV and all that surveillance footage, but - with the pencil skirt and that specific shade of purple, and all that curly hair - she's the goddamned spitting image of the late _Sherlock_ _Holmes._ ”

There is a hitch in Rosie's breathing then, and you know she understands. “So now, Rosie,” you say, without any jest in your tone whatsoever. “What should I do?”

“That's an easy one, Amelia,” she says, carefully, delicately. She even calls you by name. “We'll make her Billa Baggins look a little less casual, a little more put together. Buy the pencil skirt, get her some simple separates - do not complain, I know you can tell a woman's clothes size by looking at her, don't you dare deny it - and do not, by all means, buy her anything in _any_ shade of plum.” Breathe in, breathe out, you command yourself, almost subconsciously synching with the sound of Rosie's breathing. “Then take her to me. We have some logistics to settle, and I don't think Miss Baggins would like to hear them.”

* * *

 

_Kirkland_

Jean's appearance is a testament to how thoroughly harried Amelia had been, how she did exactly what you told her to. Enormous shopping bags in hand, Jean looked at you with a Look of pure petulance, which would have been so achingly familiar had she not looked so tired. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“So it seems Amelia deigned to tell you the truth, for once.” You say, almost marvelling at the American girl's sudden obedience, whilst pouring out a second cup of tea. “Things that mustn't reach Miss Baggins' pretty ears. Do sit down.”

She does, looking at you curiously, and once more you find yourself marvelling at this Daughter of yours, how she manages to at least strive to make herself seem placid in the face of sudden surprises like this - Nation-women, supermodels that looked exactly like her, espionage, villains that seemed like male versions of her dead best friend, and the implicit knowledge of implicit danger. Then she grins at you, pretty much like a cat that caught the cream, and your heart twists. This was probably how her life was before the Fall, you muse, life-threateningly exhilarating, dangerously happy.

“Sudden shopping excursions aside, I'm getting quite the hang of this, if I may say so myself.” she crosses her legs as she turns her head back to drink from the tea cup, still grinning like a fox. “You've got me curious though. What is it that you wanted me to keep hidden?”

“If you were to ask me, I would say that Miss Billa could have gone in the mission herself - our plan is fast and decidedly foolproof, you remember, and I shall be trailing her footsteps the entire time, like what I shall be doing with you.” You were going to use one of your little-known disguises to pass of as her PA, with short brown hair and contacts. “Billa is, of course, perfectly able to defend herself in a fight, and of course no one would know her better than she does herself. But here's the thing, however - you are also here to do the one thing that the real Billa Baggins could never do.”

She must have seen the desparation in your eyes, for Jean sets down her cup carefully, delicately, atop its saucer, before turning to look at you once more. “Go on.”

“This is a honeytrap, an exceedingly short one, yes, but still, the honeypot in question has to be _convincing_ , no matter the length of the operation.” You rest your chin on your entwined hands, pondering. “We both know that Miss Billa Baggins has a significant other - one Mister Thorin Durinson, whose life has recently been threatened by a certain Mister Magus Goldman, alias Smaug, The Dragon, affiliation: Moriarty.” Jean nods back, considering what may be the earnestly _sad_ expression on your face. You have been victim and perpetrator of many a honeytrap in your history of espionage, but it did not mean you had to like it. “And we both know there is one way that will grant us easy access to the Goldman mansion.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, smirking a thin little smirk that does nothing to hide her worries, the ones most probably mirroring your own. “Why shan’t Billa know about this? Is it highly illegal, that even the oh-so-high-and-mighty British Empire cannot work around it?”

On a normal day, you should have bristled, but as it is, you do not. It is time for you to tell the truth. “No, not illegal. It is, however, a thing Billa Baggins does not need to know now. Maybe she will need to know it later, preferably once she is ensconced in a safehouse with her beloved and the last remaining members of said beloved’s family. Because this is what we are going to do.”

“We are going to show up on Magus Goldman’s doorstep,” you begin, in a tone of voice many an enemy had always described as _low and terrible_. “We are to arrive suddenly and unannounced, and you will do the one thing Billa Baggins will never dare to do, faked or otherwise – you are going to tell Goldman that you have left Thorin Durinson for good.”

Jean looks up at you with large green-blue eyes and you know that she understands exactly why this specific detail of your plan should remain unknown. But she still has not bolted – no, she never will, this is danger and this keeps her alive, both literally and metaphorically – and neither has she broken the tea cup in your face, so you carry on.

“And you are going to tell Goldman that _you_ are the only one who can teach him how to destroy the Durinson family, once and for all.”

* * *

 

_M. Holmes_

You know the workings of a dead drop when you pass one. Let it be known by one and by all that it is you, not your woefully deceased little sister, that inherited the bulk of the intelligence in the family.

To an onlooker it would have seemed terribly normal – payphone booths are extremely prevalent sights dotting the London streets, and this one doesn’t even look different from all its other neighbors. But from here you can see the tracks leading to it – close to one another, still slightly damp with this afternoon’s rainfall, someone had gone here recently, and was in a hurry to get away – as well as the discarded neon-green clutch tucked neatly away in the far corner. Coming in you can see some of the hair strands from the woman who had used the booth last – waist-length, straight, dark dyed red.

You pick up the phone from its receiver, bring it to your ear as you contemplate removing the clutch from the corner from where it has been stuffed in. This contemplation does not last long, however, because the phone begins to make sounds. Little beeps, some short, some long. Not exactly the most encoded of messages, but women in hiding sometimes have to make do with what little they have been given.

.-- .- - -.-. .... --. --- .-.. -.. -- .- -.

You shake your head. Of course she would know, you think, of course she’d latch on and get herself involved. Unlike you, you who had a part in ensuring your sister’s destruction and stood by, watched it all happen. You think of how Lady Kirkland had told you to reach out, and how you were thinking that Jean has not, will never, forgive you.

\- .- -.- . - .... . -.-. .-.. ..- - -.-. ....

This next one you do, easing it out with the tips of your fingers. A long-hidden, curious part of you wants to open it right then and there, but you school yourself into a face of impassiveness, stuffing the outrageously lime clutch into your coat pocket. You allow yourself to ponder, if the clutch was this eye-searingly neon, how much worse should the actual clothing have been?

-.-. .- .-.. .-.. - .... . --.- ..- . . -.

Most of the message had not been coded in any way other than Morse, which was in your normal opinion dreadfully naïve of her, but this last one was and the fact that she knew without a doubt just as she knew everything else that everyone else will disregard this and you will not still brings a dull ache to the cavity in your chest some people call a heart. And yes, you think, yes you little girl, I will call her.

... ....

The phone rings, finally, suddenly, bringing the message to an abrupt stop.  You make a few calls telling some of your people to remove the message left at this certain payphone in this certain street, wipe the slate clean of any and all of today’s activities. You see your face reflected in the mirror – the shine in your dull brown eyes, the grin forming on your face.

You will never tell her this, but you have never been so happy to hear seven short beats in all your life.

“Oh, yes, hello.” You continue grinning even as you exit the phonebooth, your umbrella hitting the pavement in a subconscious tune that would have been gaudy had you paid it any mind. “Grace, darling. It’s been an awfully long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT:** Reference Polyvore things! [_These_](http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=80624874) are the stuff Maddie got for Billa, and [_these_](http://www.polyvore.com/tdoml_jean_as_billa/set?id=80623747) are the stuff Amelia got for Jean. Even whilst terrified and on auto-pilot, America will always be contrary. Look at all the colors. Jean did not approve, of course, but what can she do?  
>  Title from Judith 10:4: _“And she put sandals on her feet, and put on her anklets and bracelets and rings, and her earrings and all her ornaments, and made herself very beautiful, to entice the eyes of all men who might see her.”_  
>  Shorter chapter than usual, because I’ll be needing time to work on the mission proper…a whole lot of time.  
> The Morse code is, in order: _Watch Goldman. Take the clutch. Call the Queen. SH._ (So I'm a little obsessed with this Morse code training app I've DL-ed. Sure me.)  
>  Grace is the Queen, from Moriarty’s Boast-a-lot story, so yes, this is Lestrade! Femme!Lestrade, because I want to. IDK how to fit these ladies in the story, however.  
> This was only supposed to be little two-shot about Jean and Rosie and Billa as they team up to kill Smaug. Why has it expanded so, take a good long look at my life and choices.  
> Bit of a spoiler, but to the people who have not read the Book of Judith, I just have to say that the mission proper is terribly anticlimactic. Around a chapter or two, tops, and it’ll be over with. I have no idea how to translate a head on a pike to modern times.  
> Last but not the least, kudos to my darling sister [silentside](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lackluster_wonder/pseuds/silentside), whose fanfic, amongst others, inspired me to write this in the first place, and who entrusted me with this wonderful name for human!Smaug. Magus Goldman shall be in the next chapter, ladies and gents. Wish me luck.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been using my personal fanon names for the ladies, but I just can’t help but borrow the name of Gandalf’s lingerie company - and the backstory of fem!Bilbo being a lingerie model - from Take Me From My Lace! Which is glorious, by the way, and you should most definitely read it. Also, I have nothing to do with the original TMFML story, btw. This is partly a fanfic of a fanfic, pretty much.  
> Mildly based on utentsu's fic [It Takes Two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/692502/chapters/1273241), and littleblackdog's aforementioned [Take From Me My Lace](http://archiveofourown.org/works/748520?view_full_work=true) from her and ewelock's lingerie model AU. Also loosely based on my favourite book from...lo and behold, The Bible. Am not joking.  
> Title comes from aforementioned favourite Bible book, Judith 9:10, " _By the deceit of my lips strike down the slave with the prince and the prince with his servant; crush their arrogance by the hand of a woman._ "  
> Yeah, if you remember Judith, that's basically the main framework of what I am operating around right now. Here's to hoping I actually finish it.


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